Paroxysm
by PaxtonProphet
Summary: "...looking back one last time at the pooling red liquid upon his floor, grinning inwardly at the very thought that the 'dead-men' in his floors told no tales."


His body had finally begun to feel the ravaging effects of manual labor. Sure, he was no stranger to actually DOING something, but never at the level he was now. Of course, he'd never hauled a kill this big before. The creature over his shoulders bled ceaselessly from its neck where he'd shot it, leaving a rather obvious trail in the snow for anyone to follow, but, hopefully, the storm just fringing over the bay would blanket it upon the hour. He needed to get his prize home prior to that and the fact that his A.T.V. broke down three miles back didn't help it. At least it was a young female. He honestly didn't think he could have made it the rest of the way hoisting the carcass of a fully grown male elk across the tundra of his back yard. Under the embrace of his winter gear, his right arm ached as though someone had stabbed a rail-road spike through it. Still, this creature was vital for more things than one could imagine. He was rather resourceful.

As he had began to suspect an hour prior, the storm began to roll upon the flat half-a-mile from his home. At first, the snow was light and wind a subtle breeze. He new his homeland, however... She wouldn't stay this way forever. Against the screaming of his body, he drove on ever fast, switching the elk onto his weaker arm and trudging. Minutes later, the storm REALLY began to bore down on him, pelting his masked face with bullets of white crystals. Many a time over, he'd be forced to stop and re-sling his hood over his head as to not allow frost-bite to take any part of exposed skin or re-adjust his gloves. The elk blood seeping through his clothes only countered his efforts. Regardless, however, he made it back to his home safe and mostly un-afflicted by the below-zero temperatures roaring jaws.

His home was a rather small one, a single floor cabin nestled ungraciously into the flat. Its roof was caving in some places, forcing a draft upon him some nights and the windows hinted with dust and cob-webs, but he had more important things to do rather than keeping every square inch of a home he only used during the winder clean. The inside was slightly neat- or a recluse's definition of 'neat'. The couch was draped in a hand-sewn quilt with cheap pillows at one arm rest. He had a coffee table, but every square inch of it was covered in either drawings, fabrics, or books of any random sort that he so happened to come upon in his endeavors. Some were actually rather interesting and he was quite happy he'd started collecting, truth be told. Often, he'd find books by well known authors like Harper Lee or even Mark Twain, but he'd also find those by lesser known artists such as Albert Cohen or a rather bland fellow named Michael De'Boe Droan. All were fine creatures in their own rights, but he himself liked _The Tell-Tale Heart,_ a true classic and his favorite of Edgar Allen Poe's line. Fine literature aside, he made his way to the cellar of his cabin with the elk in tow, blood somewhat trickling but in less volumes as before.

The walls below were concrete and insulated thickly for many feet into the ground. The floors were also the same stone, but it all gave the appearance of a medieval torture chamber, minus the usual instruments. Across the mid ceiling of the cellar was tail a pole of wood and upon it a chain. It and the floor below was coated with thick, sanguine blood. He righted the elk so that her hind legs were upwards and chained her to the pole. She hung but inches from the ground, her generally small form dangling lightly. He sighed, finally free of her weight, before he took to the process of silting her artery and skinning her hide. She was a tender little thing and her pelt came free with more ease than most. After that, he simply left her to hang and walked upstairs to strip of his winter gear and finally relax. Might he eat the elk? Sure, if he felt the need, but that wasn't why he had killed her in the first place. If he'd been seen with her, a hunting violation was far less severe than what he COULD have gotten had they found his cellar before hand. Now, he could relax.

Just as he'd gotten his jacket, mask, goggles, and gloves free of his form, however, there came an intruding knock upon his door. He rolled his eyes, allowing a wide grin to cross his features. "Even in a snow-storm, that old ranger will stalk me. I guess those boys at the creek DID see me,"he said to himself. He opened the door and sighed upon seeing the deeply wrinkled face of ranger Dorton, his local wildlife officer. He was clothed in his normal green 'fatigues,' marked with the little elk-head patch that most of the higher leveled rangers had. He pulled his hood back across his graying hair, almost yelling over the screaming of the blizzard winds.

"Eddie, I think you know why they dragged me out here. Make this easy on me, please."

"Yes, yes. I know. Come in before the ice eats you alive." They entered Eddie's abode, breathing glad sighs into the warmth of the small fireplace. Ranger Dorton only relished it momentarily as he was a man who kept work on the forefront of his mind.

"Where is it, Eddie?" he breathed. The taller man only motioned to the cellar with an exaggerated swish and lead the way down into the concrete bunker. They walked down a short flight of wooden stairs to where the elk was showingly hung from her hind legs. Dorton took one look at her and sighed, wiping his forehead and taking out a clipboard from his back-pack. "Did you weigh it?"

"No, but I carried her for five miles. If I had to make a rough estimate, I would say she weighs around two-hundred-eighteen. Rather plump her fer age, yes?"

"You carried her? Have you little sense, boy?"

"My A.T.V. broke down at Harper Creek. If it isn't too much trouble, do you think you could send someone to go get it when you are done here?"

"Yes, Eddie, but it'll have to be impounded again. By God's grace, son, why do I have to keep coming down here? We love you like family, Ed, but I can't keep downplaying these antics. If I catch you hunting out of season one more time, I'll take your guns and send you to court, and I don't want to do that. Listen, I know you have it rough right now, but I can't let you break the law, even if its something simple like killing a month late. I'd be happy to help you get some food, son. Suck up that pride and don't be scared to ask for help every now and again."

"It isn't pride, Richard."

"Whatever you want to call it, I don't care. Help me get her into the tuck and you can come with me into town."

"Mind telling me why?"

"Gonna buy you lunch at Lucy's. Come on, now. You carried her five miles. Ten feet down your drive-way shouldn't be a problem." Eddie gladly hoisted the elk over his shoulder one last time and followed Dorton up the steps, looking back one last time at the pooling red liquid upon his floor, grinning inwardly at the very thought that the 'dead-men' in his floors told no tales.


End file.
